A note to the general audience: this is an oddball, and I'm not entirely sure it belongs in Sci-Fi and Fantasy (though it would probably fit even worse in any other category.) Don't worry, though, as unlike my last story this contains no masochism--it's closer to the "transformation" end of things.
A note to those like Mack: I tried to research your lore, but you don't seem to
have
a unified mythology. No one can agree on where you lived or what you were like, from the most important aspects to the simplest details. I consider this a reason not to believe, but many ages have passed, after all, and memories can no longer be expected to be clear. Thus, if this story does not match the feelings inside you, treat it as an alternate view, subject to exaggeration and lies, but perhaps with a core of truth.
"Frost?"
The man spoke with a note of bemusement, drawing Trisha out of her thoughts more effectively than the many drunks who'd tried to flirt with her. She turned around on her barstool and looked him in the eye, trying to gauge his intentions.
He looked away in apparent embarrassment. "I'm sorry--I thought you were someone else." But it was too late for him. She looked him over--his tall, muscular frame and Nordic face, so different from her smaller, darker self--and she decided she liked what she saw. "Wait. I'm not Frost, but you look like you need a friendly ear. Sit down, and tell me what's on your mind." He sat down on the stool and took a moment to settle in, and then he talked. For an hour, he talked.
She listened without interrupting, apart from occasionally ordering drinks for him, and at the end of that hour she knew his name (Mack), his job (construction worker), his favorite color (white), and even what he ate for breakfast (plain oatmeal, every day.) It was obvious to her long before the outpouring finished that there was something he was hiding, but she was hardly the type to pry. When he was done, she told him her name and the bare minimum of information about herself, and they exchanged phone numbers. She hid her smile until he was out the door.
---
"He's adorable," Trisha told her friend Betty. They were on lunch break at the office where they both worked, and Betty, as usual, had turned the topic to Trisha's love life. "He acts like he's a superhero or something, but he's so scared inside. I'm not sure whether I want to comfort him or drag him into bed by his ankles."
"You'll pick the ankles, I just know it," Betty responded.
"He looks like he stepped off a plinth in the park! It would be immoral of me
not
to take advantage of him before someone else does. But I've got to wonder what he's so afraid of. He never mentioned any friends, any family, or anyone he trusts at all--it's like he doesn't want to get close to anyone."
"You were doing just fine before those last couple sentences. Give it a few years, and you'll be just like me."
They had a good laugh at that. Both of them knew that no matter how low Trisha sunk, she would never be like Betty. Then the topic turned to the latest unfortunate man Betty had her hooks in, and Trisha put herself on autopilot, saying as little as possible and thinking about Mack.
---
Their second date was a proper one, with flowers and a meal at a nice restaurant, but Mack's limited budget and Trisha's dislike of fancy food soon had them realizing they were better off keeping things informal. They met for the third time at his apartment, where they sat down on his bed and had themselves another talk. When he exhausted his discussion of the present (and showed no willingness to talk of his past), she found herself filling the gap in the conversation, telling him more and more about herself. Something in him invited trust, and she told him things she'd only said before to Betty, and even a few things she'd never told anyone before. When she, too, finished, they just sat there for a minute, close in body and feeling closer in mind.
"Who was Frost?" She didn't realize she'd asked him the question until a second after she'd done so, and then only from his startled expression.
Within five seconds, he was fully composed again, and his voice was neutral as he responded "Just someone I knew, a long time ago."
"I remember the way you said her name the other night. I can tell you've got some issue with her, something you can't forgive yourself for." She chuckled. "Confession is good for the soul, and who better to confess to than me? I don't know you well enough to blame you or judge you--it'll be like talking to a wall, unless you want me to talk back."
He eyed her for a long moment, and she could tell he was debating how much to tell her. Then he slumped forward and looked off into space.
"We called her Frost because she looked like she'd been snowed on, pale and strange, with funny-colored eyes that could never see very far ahead. None of us had ever seen an albino before, and the older folks told me her birth caused quite an uproar, though I was too young then to remember it. Half of us thought she was cursed. Even her parents wanted her abandoned to die. But my father thought she deserved a chance, and he was the closest thing we had to a leader. He and my mother wound up raising her alongside me."
"She was always a sickly girl. I don't know much about medicine, but I think something went wrong before she was born, something bigger than just albinism. She was never very strong or very fast, and she got tired so quickly. But she tried--believe me, she tried--and over time she strengthened up."
"The other kids thought she was an easy target, but only when I wasn't around. And I was around most of the time. There was something about her that made me want to protect her. It wasn't that she was different, or even that she was weak. It was that she didn't seem to care. There was something in the way she held herself that showed that she wanted to be more than she was; that someday she might be greater than all the rest of us. You have that something too--that's why you reminded me of her, even though you don't look anything like her."
"And then . . ." He trailed off.
"If you're not ready to talk about all of it yet, I'll understand," Trisha said.
Mack didn't respond directly. "It's getting late."
Before she ushered herself out, she asked him one last question. "How long ago was this?"
He only said, "A lifetime."
---
"You asked him about his ex? What were you thinking, Trisha?"
"It seemed like the right thing to do. I think he only trusts me because he thinks of me as her. I need to know what she was like so I don't scare him off. I've already found out that I need to act like I want to be 'greater than all the rest of us,' because she acted that way."
"The goal here is to get him to think of you
instead
of his ex! A guy who's fucking a memory makes a lousy lay. Trust, me, I know a lot about it."
"I don't know. It's so strange. Sometimes I feel like I've met him before . . ."
"Oh no you don't! You're trying to get laid! Don't start getting all weird and romantic!"
Trisha was silent for a moment. "Yes. I'll try to remember that."
---
Neither Trisha nor Mack brought up the subject of sex, instead gradually approaching it through touching and petting during their time at his apartment. The night she finally "got laid" was simply one where she took the initiative in trying to remove his clothes, and he took no initiative in stopping her.
Shirtless, he was magnificent, toned by the labors of his job. Pantless . . . She barely stopped herself from laughing at how embarrassed he looked. "Don't worry, it's perfectly normal for it to be that size. You're no porn star, but you'll do."
For a moment, he seemed very far off. "I could do better."
"What do you mean?"
